


We Only Hold On Just To Let Go

by peppernine



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8077741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppernine/pseuds/peppernine
Summary: Sanji and Zoro do not fit well together, and it's all Sanji's fault. Or so he thinks. 
In which Sanji tries to deal with his own personal issues, and wonders if he can ever change what's happened between them.





	1. You Can Do Better Than Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was the result of me working a few things out on my own, as well as a character exploration study. If your character isn't suffering, are you doing it right? Ha. Ha. 
> 
> Warnings apply for depression, suicidal thoughts, self harm (implied), therapy sessions, catatonia, past child abuse (referenced later), and just a lot of being stuck in Sanji's head. It's not a fun work, though I've actually enjoyed working on it.

 

__  
I'm starting to feel,  
We stayed together out of fear of dying alone.  
I've been slipping through the years  
My old clothes don't fit like they used to  
So they hang like the ghosts of the people I've been  
...  
I have to face the truth  
That no one could ever look at me like you do  
Like I'm something worth hanging onto.  
...  
'Cause you can do better than me  
But I can't do better than you.   


You Can Do Better Than Me – Deathcab for Cutie

 

 

_Who do you think is most at fault?_

Sanji closes his eyes. The cigarette in his hands finds its way between his lips in a worthless show of muscle memory. He sucks air lightly through the damp filter, drawing the bitter air deep into his lungs and savoring the blood rush the nicotine provides. He opens his eyes to find the ashtray conveniently located on the table next to him. Ever since the first of these little sessions, the one where he permanently placed a scorch mark on the end table, he always remembers to grab the ashtray before sitting down on the couch. A light tap of his fingers against the cigarette and the ash trickles down slowly to rest on the three butts below. Two more than usual, so far.

“Me, of course. It’s always me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sanji thinks mainly with his heart. 

It was his heart that pushed him into excelling in the kitchen; it’s his heart that tells him how to cook the perfectly designed meal for any individual. It’s his heart that tells him how to act towards his friends – the thing that makes him provide for the hungry, the downtrodden; the thing that made him an older brother to Chopper, the thing responsible for all of his relationships.

But this time it’s his brain that fucked up. It was his brain that told him dating Zoro wasn’t a smart idea. It was his brain that told him he could never be loved in the first place.

 

 

He hated Zoro the moment he first met him. Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say that they loathed each other with unrepentant rage and anger. Sanji couldn’t decide what was worse - the stupid green hair, or the idiotic, absurd muscle mass – it’s a wonder they didn’t kill each other when they first met. Zoro was always the one backing up Luffy’s crazy ideas, always the one getting lost, always claiming that he was the stronger one. Zoro didn’t care about what Sanji was good at. He didn’t care about the lengths that Sanji went to making sure that each meal was better than the last. He didn’t care about how much Sanji _cared._ And he was always, ALWAYS nagging – little things too: the way that Sanji talked, what he talked about, how he was dressed, even who he talked to, for fucks sake. But what bothered Sanji the most, what sent him shivering with fury kicking the furniture in his room around in a frenzied wrath, was that Zoro couldn’t even be bothered to say his name.

It was a joke in the beginning. Or at least, that’s how Sanji had treated it. They were introduced at a weird time – Luffy had made a mess of something or other and dragged Sanji along with him spouting tales of a new guy he’d forcefully become friends with, “of course you’ll like him, Sanji!” and something along the lines of, “he’s really funny and he gets lost a lot,” serving as their hopelessly inept introduction.

Luffy couldn’t have known that he had haplessly thrown together two people so in opposition that their very natures had revolted against the other once they’d gotten within eyesight. He couldn’t have known that his two best friends would have fought worse than cats and dogs, that they reacted against each other much the way lava hits the sea; with noise, steam, and so volatile a reaction that their meetings would always leave physical evidence of their hostility towards the other.

Sanji knew who Roronoa Zoro was. Everybody knew who Roronoa Zoro was. He was an asshole for no good reason, hopelessly loyal to his friends and family, had the same sad backstory as everyone else, and was horrendously incompetent at anything he couldn’t physically fight his way out of. Sanji didn’t need to get to know him. Sanji didn’t want to get to know him. It wasn’t his fault that anytime they were in the room together Zoro would bitch about something just to set Sanji off. It certainly wasn’t his fault that their friends policed every meeting to maintain some essence of order.

 

* * *

 

_So what changed?_

“I don’t know.” He closes his eyes and absentmindedly tucks a string of hair behind one ear. He thinks back to around the time things started going topsy-turvy for him. Although, there wasn’t really a point in his life when things were going as planned. Every day was a different battle back then; every step forward followed by two steps back.

“I just started noticing him more.” He taps his index and middle fingers a few times against his thigh. “He started annoying me in different ways."

 

* * *

 

He’s not sure exactly what changed, much less when it changed. One day Sanji looked around him and realized that he didn’t really mean any of the insults he so easily hurled at the other man. He realized that their tiffs and spats and verbal assaults no longer held any real soul to them. Or at least, Sanji didn’t put the same amount of acrid wit and effort into their arguments. It was more that they were fighting because that’s what everyone, including Zoro and Sanji, assumed they would do. In a way, it was what they were supposed to do; their expected role within the group.

He’d tried being nice at first. It had not gone well.

He’d taken the first step forward by not responding to a intolerably immature nickname flung across the room one night, only to take two steps back when his silence was taken for an attack in itself and he’d felt forced to defend his own pride by sticking his foot into the Marimo’s face. Sanji didn’t do well with attacks of that nature, and he was both amazed and disappointed that the asshole had baited him to that response. He didn’t regret his reaction, he was fully justified. And if anything, he had shown impeccable form when he’d knocked the algae-head on his ass. No, he was more upset that he’d failed in his first attempt at civility.

Slowly but surely Sanji was rewarded for his attempts to reach out a hand in… not friendship, not yet, but something resembling camaraderie. He discovered for no good reason, other than it was the truth, that he liked having Zoro _there_. Sure the bastard was as infuriating as a rock in his shoe, but he was unfailingly annoying; his abrasiveness and surly attitude a constant in Sanji’s life. Soon the insults, taunts, and mockery didn’t have the same bite behind them – they argued because it was fun, because it was a safe spark of attraction that allowed them both to hide their true feelings.

Sanji knew Zoro had a softer side. He’d seen it when the Marimo was with Chopper, or even when he’d bottle fed the half-drowned kitten that had showed up on his doorstep one morning. He’d just never fully realized it until, after they’d been dating for a few weeks, he noticed the idiot kept spare lighters on him in case Sanji lost his.

 

* * *

 

_When did you start dating?_

Sanji laughs softly. That was the question everyone else had asked at the time too. The whole…thing… came with much more surprise and reservation from their friends than he had expected. Surely the two of them weren’t the only ones who had noticed the other’s quiet affection?

“The first time?”

Sanji stares pointedly out the window to the side of where he’s sitting. In the distance he can see a cloud shaped distinctly like a boat. Zoro always liked watching the clouds.

“Or the fifth time?”

 

* * *

 

 

Their first date wasn’t actually anything special, and it wasn’t even really a date – although it definitely marked the start of _something._ Sanji could only abide eating out on the most special of occasions, and Zoro wasn’t one to plan anything extraordinary. They’d gone to see a movie and heckled the screen the entire time. Sanji remembers his hands sweating and heart racing when he’d first asked–

“Hey Marimo, want to catch a movie later?”

“Sure.” Zoro had paused briefly, probably trying to decide if Sanji had anything else to add. “Anyone else coming?”

“No.” Sanji had to light up a smoke just so his damn hands would stop shaking.

“Huh. Yeah, ok. Tonight?”

Things were actually a lot easier than Sanji had thought they would be. They still fought – ALL the time – but now they could actually enjoy each other’s company too. It was nice. It didn’t make much sense, but it worked. For a while.

The first time they slept together was surprisingly amazing. Not that Sanji thought he wouldn’t enjoy it, and not that he didn’t think Zoro would be anything less than amazing in bed. What he was surprised about was how amazingly well it worked. There wasn’t any arguing (well, no more than the usual), and as cliché and trite as it was, they fit well together. They each were strong enough to manage the other, and interested enough in making it good. For Sanji at least, he reveled in the ability to place his pleasure in another’s hands. For too long he’d held back, been reserved, been the instigator of every move and every touch. For once he could relax. And he gave as well as he got.

He could at least remember how it started; they’d been out drinking with Luffy and the others. Zoro had a liver with seemingly self-regenerative properties and it would take bathing in the stuff for him to actually get drunk. Sanji was embarrassingly bad at holding his liquor, though he’d claim the opposite until he reached his deathbed. Sanji’s townhome was within walking distance of the bar and it wouldn’t have been anything new for one of them to crash at the other’s place. What _was_ new was the fleeting looks under hooded eyes, their eyes dilating in response to catching each other staring, the persistent (no, _insistent)_ touches as they supported each other down winding sidewalks and up stairs with more steps than seemed necessary, the comfortable yet pregnant silence as Sanji unlocked his front door.

Sanji had been the first inside and had made his decision as he hung his keys and his coat on the hall tree. He’d carefully shucked his boots by the entryway and continued through his house, carefully ridding himself of clothing the further inside he ventured. His belt buckle was first – he remembers the solid clank it made when it hit the parquet floor, and the hushed intake of breath Zoro had tried to stifle behind him. His scarf was left strewn across the banister as he took the stairs slowly, his shirt left dropped on the fifth step from the top. It’s strange how the smallest things came back to him; these details weren’t the important part. What was important was how Zoro was following closely behind – Sanji could hear his breaths getting louder as he very obviously followed Sanji into the only bedroom in the apartment.

 

* * *

 

 

_Was that the biggest part of it? The sex?_

Today, Sanji can’t sit still. It wasn’t unusual for him to be overcome by sudden bursts of restless but equally fruitless energy. His deeply hidden anxieties and nerves often shone through the surface in bobbing knees and tapping fingers. _Fiddling._ That was what Zoro had always called it. 

Sanji knew better. He knew it for what it truly was. _Restlessness._ _Impatience. Constant agitation._

“Don’t get me wrong, it did play a big part.” He paces behind the couch, each foot placed in line directly ahead of the other while lining up nicely with the natural grain of the wooden floors. He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets, wobbling as the movement puts him off balance for only a second. When he reaches the end of the couch he neatly spins on the ball of one foot and balances on it for a while.

“I think what hurt the most was how gentle he always was. With everything”

He stops pacing when he reaches the other end of the couch. He leans one hip against the edge, and tucks his left foot against his right ankle. He slowly withdraws his hands from his pockets; one hand gripped around a pack of Marlboro Reds, the other gripping a green Bic lighter in his fist. He lights up casually, as if he has all the time in the world; it’s the only time everything around him stops spinning so goddamn quickly. He exhales slowly and watches as the smoke from his fourth cigarette of the day trails slowly above him.

“I didn’t deserve that.”

 

* * *

 

They weren’t good for each other. Sanji knew that – knew it so intimately and unequivocally it was nearly painful for him to stay. They were like water and oil – never quite mixing well enough despite repeated attempts. They were too volatile together, too on edge, never settling. No, maybe they were more like baking soda and vinegar. Combative, combustive, confrontational – no end of negative descriptions to match ‘Zoro and Sanji.’ It didn’t change the fact that Sanji ached for the other man. He hated that feeling most, the one where his brain told him it wasn’t worth the pain, it wasn’t worth patching up whatever was between them when every conversation turned into an argument and every sideways glance turned only into frustrated glares.

 

* * *

 

_What went wrong the first time?_

“The first time? Same thing as what happened every other time, I fucked it up.”

_But specifically, how?_

“I let him believe what everyone else was saying.”

 

* * *

 

Zoro was unwaveringly loyal. Sanji tried to be. It’s stupid to blame it on nature – but there was always something distracting him, always a little voice telling him that it couldn’t be as good as it felt. Something was bound to go wrong, something always did. And Sanji was very, very good at burning bridges.

Half of their friends supported them. The other half was wary; they let it show in stares that lasted for too long, in whispered conversations behind doors conveniently left open, in advice couched in distrust. People had a lot to say about both Sanji and Zoro, it seemed there was never any shortage of opinions on the subject of them together. 

Sanji let the whispers get to him. And then he let the whispers get to Zoro.

It was stupid, of course. The things Sanji did usually were. Too many nights spent out too late. Too many stares and compliments from Sanji to people, women, who were not Zoro. Too many gifts backed by words that didn’t explain enough. Too much fighting that ended in no real answers.

“I need you to talk to me,” Zoro would say, never facing Sanji.

“There’s nothing to say. Don’t you trust me?”

“I would trust you if you’d give me a little something to hold on to here. There’s…”

Long, pregnant pauses. Too many nights spent back to back. Too many mornings of hurried conversations with no meaning. How many times can you say “good morning” and not have it mean anything at all?

Three weeks worth. 

That’s how long it took for things to fall apart after the first crack.

Sanji had no love for himself; how could he possibly be capable of loving someone else?

  

* * *

 

 

_And when it was over, for the first time, how did you feel?_

He chuckles underneath his breath, but with no real feeling. It’s reflex now to laugh everything off with a shrug and a halfhearted wink of the eye. If he keeps telling himself that everything’s fine, maybe one day he can actually start believing it.

“That’s a pretty typical question.” He avoids the question because he hates talking about how he _feels._ Hates talking about the stickiness that is inside him, the rancid despair that envelops him until he feels like he’s drowning. Hates thinking about words left unsaid that burn into his lungs until he swallows them whole and prays he doesn’t choke. Hates that in the end, he can’t bring himself to feel anything.

“It hurt.”

 

* * *

 

People always talked about looking for fire in a relationship, about the importance of maintaining a spark. There’s always a choice between two loves – the comfortable one with its promise of contentment and easy ebb of care; or the difficult, fiery love with its constant struggle to balance passion, love, and logic. The truth is that neither is a better choice. Both have their faults, and in the end both will leave you broken. 

Sanji’s heart broke along with the first time their relationship broke. Or maybe that’s not the best way to describe it – they never had anything whole between them to start with. They had love, and plenty of lust, but they both lacked any sort of foundation to build anything solid; to build an actual relationship. It was mutual (though the destruction was obviously one sided), and the hurtful pangs of attachment turned into a dull ache within Sanji’s past. He had thought he was happy. He knew it wasn’t perfect, but very little was actually perfect in Sanji’s fucked up grayscale world. There was so little keeping them attached: a toothbrush here and there, a few pieces of clothing, a box of movie tickets Sanji had stashed away at the back of his closet. It didn’t make sense that there were so few physical objects between them. Did the time they spent together not mean anything? How was it possible that they way Sanji felt wasn’t carved and scarred into his skin? For the first time in his life he was emotionally raw on the inside with no visible marks to show for his effort. Bruises at least had the consideration to serve as a physical reminder for pain.

The hardest part was getting the smell of Zoro’s shampoo out of the pillows. It was a stupid thing, but Sanji lost count of the number of times he’d buried his face in his pillows only for each one to wind up thrown to the opposite side of the room come morning. Smells linger; feelings hurt. No matter how many times Sanji washed and changed the sheets, no matter how often he hugged his pillows tightly and emptied an entire day’s worth of tears into them, everything still smelled vaguely of pine and lemons.

It hurt. The comforting silence and fresh breath of freedom gave no solace to a man haunted by his own insecurities.

It was a strange cycle of love and hate and lust and rejection. Never moving more than two steps forward – and always, _always,_ followed by more steps back. As time passed they carefully avoided uncomfortable situations, Sanji was always aware of where Zoro was and what he was doing. The constant surveillance, the continuous worrying, and the ceaseless doubting of his decisions was exhausting.

Sanji couldn’t ever shake the feeling of being irreparably tied to the other man.

  

* * *

 

 

_When did you decide to try again? What was the catalyst?_

“See, now that’s the part that always seemed funny to me,” Sanji says with one hand draped dramatically over his forehead. Today he doesn’t have the energy to pace around; today he barely has the energy to lift one hand to carry a cigarette to his mouth, so he uncharacteristically left the side table empty of an ashtray. Maybe he should think about cutting back anyway.

“We never decided, and I don’t think we ever really fell apart like people are supposed to.”

 

* * *

 

They couldn’t ignore each other forever after all. Luffy still cooked up ridiculous adventures that required several people to rescue him from. The crew still hung out regularly; Sanji just smoked more than usual and Zoro always had a drink in hand. It was hard for Sanji, to still see Zoro’s face every day, to see a daily reminder of his personal failings. To remember that Zoro’s laugh wasn’t something special reserved just for him. To pretend that his heart didn’t threaten to jump out of his chest every time he brushed shoulders with the other man.

It was the little things that hurt the worst. Someone would inevitably bring up something that happened while they were dating. Sanji would smile brightly and allow his self to feel good about the memory, then move on and blatantly, painfully, ignore the burning and aching within his chest. The whole crew would go out, piled into the back of Franky’s van with more people than seats and Sanji would unavoidably end up next to the man he had been doing everything in his power _to avoid._ Leaving him to pretend that he was capable of keeping his knee from brushing up against Zoro’s, pretending that it was an accident when their hands brushed as they both reached to close the van door. Pretending that everything was fine.

He’d had it so good. Why was he destined to fuck everything up? Who could ever learn to love him?

 

 

It had started again with a fight. Between them, it always started with a fight. But this time it was purely physical, or at least, that’s how it was supposed to be.

He doesn’t remember how it started. He doesn’t remember how they both squared up against each other, how they simultaneously marched in fury to the backyard – maybe they were outside to begin with? Sanji thinks he instigated it, he certainly wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, something about Sanji having perfected some new combo and how he’d been itching to try it out. How he was so sure that this time he could wipe that idiotic grin off the green-haired bastard’s face. Give Zoro something to really complain about. But maybe he’s imagining the whole thing with a pair of rose-colored glasses firmly affixed in hindsight.

What he does remember is how every kick and every block only served to make him feel alive, more alive than he’d felt in the entirety of the past month. And how every hit that landed was sure to cause some wonderful bruises (finally a physical badge built to match the internal wounds). He remembers the hard smack of his back against the damp ground, the feel of grinding the grass underneath his palms while attempting to free himself from whatever stupid judo-esque pin that Zoro had locked him in.

And then, suddenly, he felt like he was being held. And while rendered immobile by a man with too much muscle mass for his own good Sanji realized that his bed was far too empty, that he didn’t take up enough space on his own couch, and how unpleasant the echo of his footsteps in his silent townhouse was. As he fought to control his breathing he realized just how lonely and touch-starved he had been for the past few months. With Zoro spread out over his body, his left arm stretched uncomfortably over the top of his head (the asshole had just picked him up from the hips and thrown him down, knowing a typical leg sweep or kick wouldn’t unbalance the blonde), Sanji was amazed at how much his heart rate had slowed, and how little he fought the hold. 

“Are you okay?” Even then, his name never crossed the other man’s lips. That was a gift reserved only for the most exceptional occasions.

_No._

_Of course not._

_Please don’t me ask that._

Those were all of the things that he could have said, probably should have said. Instead, he only shrugged out of the impromptu embrace and carefully dusted the grass off of his shirt. He didn’t dare trust his voice to shake, he had no faith that what was on his mind would come spewing forth: unstoppable repentance and meek begging for forgiveness. So he said nothing.

And if Zoro stood a little bit closer to him for the rest of the night he pretended not to notice, just like he’d been pretending all along.

 

 

“You’ve had too much to drink, get in my car I’ll drive you home.”

Again Sanji was the victim to bad timing, to his inability to refuse any drop of kindness from the man at his side.

He _was_ drunk, not much of a surprise given his low tolerance and tumultuous emotional state. So he dutifully climbed into the passenger seat and sat mesmerized as he watched the lights blend together while the lack of space between them quickly overloaded his senses. He muddled everything over slowly in his mind – his thoughts both freed and stymied by his drunkenness. Finally, as Zoro pulled over and together they sat parked on the side of the street Sanji had worked up the courage and gained control over his mouth to say one thing. Just one thing. 

“I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

_Tell me about a happy memory._

Sanji smirks around the lollipop in his mouth – cherry flavored, all natural of course. It turns out that smoking was mainly about the nicotine rush and, of all things, an oral fixation. He’s working on cutting back; the patch and the lollypop seemed to be helping the most, which means almost not at all.

“It’s really stupid.”

He doesn’t even need a few moments to think of his happy memory – it’s his favorite memory, and the only one that made him think that just maybe, he was worth loving.

 

* * *

 

His eyes opened suddenly, consciousness slammed into him throwing his body into full alertness though he doesn’t know the cause. It took him a few moments to place where he was. He was lying on his couch in his living room with a hand tucked underneath him. As he stretched it an uncomfortable tingling sensation shot through his arm causing him to wince in pain. Something uncomfortable pressed into his back meant that he had moved to the very edge of the couch in his sleep. Maybe that was what woke him up. A small, nearly imperceptible, snort from behind him reminded him exactly what had happened previously. He and Zoro had rented some obnoxious action movie involving car chases and death defying stunts that paired nicely with a six-pack and popcorn. It was an attempt at playing nice. They must have fallen asleep, eventually wrapped up cozily in each other’s arms. Sanji lay stilled, listening to the quiet breathing of the man next to him as he noted every single inch of his body that was in contact with Zoro.

It was simultaneously too much and not enough. He breathed in deeply and faintly caught the smell of beer mixed with the smell of Zoro’s deodorant. _That’s right_ , they had returned to Sanji’s house after running into each other at the gym. Sanji had teased Zoro for his choice in deodorant every chance he got – it was some cheap drugstore sports brand that reeked of musk and cedar with a misplaced hint of orange. Sanji supposed that it worked, in an oddly endearing sort of way. The smell of Zoro’s sweat was certainly masked through the haze of his deodorant.

The house was silent; the only sounds were the soft sighs from Zoro’s light breathing behind him. The only movement came from the rise and fall of their chests lying flush together. Lying on the couch, Sanji was comfortable and warm. He was… Happy. The way that they had fallen asleep meant that he was the little spoon. He was happy to be held, and he slowly drifted back to sleep in the knowledge that he was safe for the moment from the usual intruding thoughts that plagued his nights.

 

 

In the morning Sanji woke first, used to mornings that started well before the sun rose. Although he was up only a hot shower made him feel awake, followed by a very large steaming cup of coffee and a cigarette smoked in the cool air while seated on the back stoop. Not long after Zoro joined him with a similar mug of coffee and they sat in amicable silence while Sanji lazily puffed on his first smoke of the day. He knew Zoro didn’t mind him smoking, he seemed to like the smell of his brand actually, and Sanji basked in their quiet and seemingly effortless companionship.

“You cooking breakfast?” Zoro asked, his voice and attitude gruff as always after waking.

“Maybe.”

“Need to know if I‘m gonna stay or leave, shit cook.”

Sanji remembers just how his words slurred with remaining sleepiness, his voice heavy in the morning after being quiet for so long.

“Sure. Why not?”

_Stay with me._

 

 

They came back to each other so easily. Maybe too easily. Zoro’s forgiveness was unspoken – the past so easily forgotten. Zoro’s forgiveness was given whole heartedly – as if he could see exactly the exact reasons they broke apart the first time and realized that none of it had ever really mattered. Sanji’s sorrow wasn’t fixed, his guilt never quite remedied. Sanji carried the blame within him, folded down into a small ball and shoved towards the very dark recesses of his mind.

They were happy for a long time. Or well, longer than the first time. They’d already dated once before and it was more like they picked up where they left off. Sanji remembered that Zoro liked to meditate while he was cooking dinner so he would turn down the radio he normally had playing in the kitchen. Zoro remembered that Sanji was surprisingly picky about the way the house was organized and was always careful to close cabinets and drawers and put things back where he found them.

Together they both realized that _The Problem Last Time_ , as they semi-affectionately referred to it (which meant with disdain and the air of one recalling a relative with a habit of serving stale cookies and giving useless and poorly thought out gifts), was communication. They both took very different approaches to solving it. Sanji took to prattling about his day, commenting on a multitude of both significant and insignificant things that happened to him and what inconveniences he’d faced. It didn’t matter that Zoro’s responses to Sanji’s chattering questions were short and pithy, what mattered is that Sanji was slowly able to open up and share his turbulent thought processes. Zoro’s issue was his natural taciturn personality. A man of very few words and bold actions, communication was not his forte. He took to quiet affirmations; short statements of support for the both of them, small assertions of love and care about everything and nothing. It made a difference to the both of them. Until it didn’t.

That small ball that Sanji thought he’d dealt with? The one that had festered while left unattended, leeching positivity almost unnoticed, nurtured by rare (but still reoccurring) thoughts of worthlessness and self-pity? Yeah. That one. Turns out you can’t compartmentalize guilt and shame.

 

* * *

  

It’s late in the afternoon, the air is stagnant and the heat is oppressive. Sanji is exhausted and his legs and feet quiver in fatigue. He’s overworked, and tired. Just, always tired. His hair is frizzy and unkempt, and the scent of stale cigarette smoke hangs over him more heavily than usual.

_Tell me more about your relationship. What did you feel when he said, ”I love you”?_

“Why do we always have to talk about Zoro?” He might as well be melting into the cushions underneath him. He’s not smoking, not right now. He finished the last pack he had on him right after work. Now his mind is ringing with the need of nicotine and his stomach is clenched uncomfortably tight as the acid levels within continue to rise.

_It’s important to understand how you relate to others. Your time with Zoro was your most intense and longest lasting relationship – if you can identify what you were feeling throughout the whole time, it’s possible that you can better understand your importance in other relationships. It’s so you can work better with people._

“I work with people just fine. I work in the goddamn food service industry. I _serve_ people.” He’s disgusted and irritated and he’d rather be anywhere other than _here._

_Sanji you very nearly killed a man._

Oh.

That’s right. That’s why he’s here.

“It doesn’t really matter. He was being an asshole but that doesn’t excuse my behavior.” The reasons and explanations roll off his tongue easily. His tone is unaffected and insincere but he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t really care about anything anymore.

_There are deeper issues at work here and it’s important that we get to the bottom of them. We need to understand why you feel the way you do, what past traumas –_

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about my childhood – I’ve hashed it out already before.”

_You’ve made your comfort zones very clear. But what you haven’t come to terms with is the repercussions of the past abuse. Why do you insist on running away from your relationships? Why is your first instinct to lash out in anger? Why are you so reckless?_

“Reckless? What does that have to do with anything?” Sanji’s voice comes out clear but his mouth is dry and his tongue feels heavy. The fabric in his pants is chafing irritably all over his legs. His tie is too tight and he absently claws at the offending accessory hoping to somehow loosen the knot around his neck.

_You’ve had 7 hospitalizations in 2 years, with 8 major broken bones and 3 concussions. You’ve been involved in 2 major car accidents, not to mention the massive amount of speeding tickets you’ve managed to accumulate. You work with open flames on a regular basis and compete in high profile contact sports. Your friends say your mood swings wildly..._

“So what?” Sanji interrupts with a snarl. “So what? None of that is even remotely relevant!”

_You’re reckless with your life._

Sanji’s head swims. Is it the weather? Or something that he ate earlier? No wait, that couldn’t be it, because he _hadn’t_ eaten.

“I’m not… what does that even mean? Who are you to throw that at me?” His voice catches in his throat, scraping through, leaving his insides raw until he feels like it would be easier to rip his entire neck apart, if only to be rid of the turmoil wreaking havoc within.

_You’re on the verge of suicidal. You’re not actively seeking death, but you’re not actively avoiding it either. You don’t think you’re worth saving._  

The words echo loudly in Sanji’s brain, ricocheting around until the sounds lose any semblance of once having been words. His brain is so noisy he can’t think; can’t pay attention to where he is or what he’s doing, can’t understand exactly what’s been said. He doesn’t remember storming out of the room, the door slamming loudly behind him. He doesn’t remember hearing the sound of shattering glass as he threw the ashtray hard against the wall. He barely remembers stumbling down two flights of stairs, though his knee aches painfully and later he’ll remember having crashed down on both knees, sobbing in the stairwell. 

He finds himself in his car, racing down the street, except he’s nowhere near where he should be and on the opposite side of town from home. He doesn’t think about a certain person he knows that gets lost too easily – he’s not quite got a taste for masochism. There’s a beeping coming from somewhere; 5 loud pings, then silence, then 5 pings again. Repeated over and over again. Time begins to pass in clicks of 5, what is that noise? Ah, right. Seatbelt. _Suicidal._  

Sanji isn’t consciously aware of parking his car. He’s been driving and moving with automated motions, never fully aware of his surroundings. He doesn’t know how he got home in the first place. He remembers opening his door, but not unlocking it. Did he break the lock? How long has he been sitting on the floor? It’s not the first time he’s fallen to pieces in his entryway, but somehow this time feels different.

His face is wet, and when his tears reach his mouth he’s somehow surprised by the salty taste. His head aches, blood pounds through his skull with every breath he manages. He hiccups loudly, and has to remember to start breathing again. _In. Out. In. Out._ Sanji knows he ought to be counting his breaths, that starting a rhythm is the easiest way to calm down but he’s too far gone to think about numbers much less putting them in any kind of meaningful order.

His chest rises raggedly, his entire body wracked with sobs. Objectively, he can hear someone in the background yelling, screaming almost. Probably his neighbors fighting again. He wishes they would stop, it’s only proving to be a disturbance and set him more on edge. The person doesn’t stop. It takes him a while to realize he’s the one screaming.

After being curled up in a ball, for god knows how long, his legs start to go numb. They tingle first, then when he tries to move them pain shoots up each appendage. He thinks he deserves that. His breath still isn’t even. He crawls away from the door, hoping that he can find his bed in this state. 

_You’re not worth saving._


	2. Loved By You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as last chapter apply! Thank you so much for everyone's support!

  
_I'm a fool running through your door_  
_With my head and my heart at war_  
_Heaven knows what I'm looking for_  
_In spite of everything_  
_We only spark when we start to end_  
_A penny for every night I spend_  
_Baptized by your mess again_  
_But I only want one thing  
_ _I wanna be loved by you  
_ _I just wanna be loved by you._

Loved By You _\- Powers_

“Sanji, wake up.”

“Sanji.”

“Sanji!”

The voices pull him from a deep, troubled sleep.

His eyes barely crack open, swollen shut and reluctant to let in the bright light streaming from his open bedroom window. He’s too weak to sit up, laying in bed for three days straight does funny things to one’s constitution. Sanji squints blankly ahead at the wall in front of him, eyes slowly tracing the familiar patterns of the texture; having memorized the design of the imperfections in the paint through the hours spent lying in this exact spot.

He can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat throughout his entire body, feeling it pulse up from his feet, through his thighs, up to his stomach, and weakly echoing in his head. He absentmindedly runs a hand across the opposite wrist, and sees the faint glow of blue underneath nearly translucent skin. Has he always been so pale? Have his veins always been so prominent? 

“Do we even know how long he’s been like this? I’m worried about him.”

A soft whispered voice carries from the opposite side of the bedroom. Someone, a woman, a voice Sanji is intimately familiar with but can’t focus on identifying, speaks from the doorway. He hears the sounds the voice makes, thinks about the way each syllable uttered bounces around the room before it reaches him. He doesn’t understand what they’re saying. He’s a little beyond that point right now.

A rough heavy hand, lined with calluses, lifts him abruptly from the bed placing him propped up on a stack of fluffed pillows. Sanji doesn’t try to fight it, or to assist with his change in position. Catatonia is just a bundle of fun. The person who lifted him up sits beside him and places a bowl of something in Sanji’s lap. Sanji can register dark skinned hands, tanned both by the sun and family history, and somewhere behind him a head of bushy, curly hair.

The helper, Usopp most likely, tries to spring Sanji into action by dangling various pieces of food in front of him. It smells good, most likely his own cooking. The broth smells like it came from the stash in the freezer – the one he’d made after a particularly raucous thanksgiving, his brain unhelpfully supplies.

He cooperates. Eating, he finds to his surprise, isn’t painful at all. Something he’d sorely needed. He’d forgotten how important food was, how much better he felt with some sort of nourishment while he had been so focused on not shattering to pieces in bed.

Usopp asks a question from behind him, Sanji can tell by the uptick in tone and the halting cadence of the syllables, but the fog surrounding his brain is too thick to understand anything. His eyebrows crinkle downwards naturally, and he turns around slowly to stare at Usopp questioningly.

“Are you alright?” The other man repeats softly, as though he was speaking to a spooked and cornered animal.

Sanji shakes his head slowly, though not slow enough and he’s forced to take several deep breaths to fight off the nauseous feeling that arises from the movement. His mouth feels as though it is stuffed with cotton, but he pushes past the strange feeling to form words. Lips pressed tightly together, one stiff swallow, and then a sting of pain as the skin around his mouth cracks.

“Not yet.”

 

* * *

 The days pass and Sanji keeps on living, though it’s little more than existing. Work at least, is a saving grace; he’s given a time to wake up in the morning, people that depend on him, and tasks that leave no room for his mind wandering to more unsavory places. Taking the fewest breaks possible, and only those to satisfy his ever-increasing nicotine habit, he works until he is exhausted and the only thing left for him to do is go home and slip into unconsciousness, usually still clothed. Repeat _ad nauseum._

Nothing quite helps but nothing makes it worse. He tries drinking, once, just to see if he could reveal some karmic inspiration or perhaps provide some other kind of stimulation for a break in the monotony. 2 fifths of whisky later, and severe dehydration from spending three nights in a row puking his guts out, he decides that he may have his own vices and issues but alcoholism is not one of them.

Still the days pass.

And each one feels longer than the next.

He’s slipping again. He misses Zoro.

  

He cycles between feeling nothing, between being lost in the desperation of life, and being angry at the world for fucking him up so badly. _It’s not my fault,_ runs through his mind constantly – a mantra keeping him from further reeling into an even deeper pit of despair. _It’s not my fault._

The worst part is that he’s tired all the time. So goddamn exhausted. Existing weighs on him, giving his bones and muscles the consistency of molasses, robbing him of strength and concentration. Everything hurts but he’s too fucking tired to deal with it. There’s a weight on his mind and body – and no amount of sleep, or sleepless nights lying prone in bed does anything to relieve it.

Frown marks begin to etch themselves into his forehead. His hair is dull and frizzy; his skin dry and oddly colored. He doesn’t kid himself when he looks in the mirror in the morning. He looks like shit, but there’s nothing he can do about that right now when even the act of getting out of bed in the morning is sometimes more than he can handle.

Dishes pile up in the sink. He can’t see the bottom of his ashtrays for the amount of ash and spent butts left behind. He hasn’t done laundry in weeks, but it doesn’t matter – it’s not like he has anywhere to be. Or anyone to impress. Texts and voicemails go unanswered because he doesn’t care enough to look at them, and he can’t bring himself to act like a normally functioning member of society. Soon there’s fewer and fewer invitations – his friends wanting less and less to do with someone as antisocial as he is right now. It’s better that way.

He’s pretty fucked up. He knows it. He knows other people can tell by looking at him. He’s not making any effort to conceal the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hair has grown out unevenly, or the delayed reaction he gives everyone after he is spoken to. He’s not trying to hide it. He’s not trying to pretend that everything is fine – he’s too tired for that.

He’s crying out for help in the only way he knows how: desperately and silently.

 

* * *

 Robin shows up one day. Sanji vaguely remembers plans agreed on through text message the week before, but his short-term memory is shot so he can’t be sure that this is purely a social visit.

She stands tall and looming in the entryway, her presence almost overbearing. Sanji looks up at her, but Robin’s expression and deep grey eyes reveal nothing.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She asks.

Sanji’s wearing yesterday’s clothes – dirtied sweatpants and a soft but ill-fitting t-shirt from years ago. He really wasn’t expecting company today, hell – he doesn’t expect to _be_ much company today, but he’s always found it hard to say no to Robin.

“You’ve cut yourself shaving.” Robin’s voice is light, her words chastising and affectionate simultaneously. She moves past him, settling down comfortably at the dining room table.

“Oh, yeah. This morning actually, my hands were shaking.”

Sanji doesn’t tell her about the ten minutes he spend staring at the razor in his hand. The ten minutes where he imagined how easy it would be to smash the damn thing to pieces and hold a blade between his fingers. He doesn’t share how some forgotten memory told him it was better to angle the blade downwards, not sideways. Or about the few seconds he imagined the blood pooling around his wrists, dripping onto the countertop beat by stubborn beat. He buries the thought of how relieved he’d been when the razor had slipped across his jaw line, at how refreshing it was to _finally feel something._

He gets the feeling that she already knows.

“Hands shaking? That’s unlike you.” _Maybe shaving isn’t the smartest idea,_ her smirk says.

“Yeah, I uh, keep forgetting to drink water. I think that’s what it is.” A hand lazily traveling through the uneven fringe over his right eye only to stop to scratch the nape of his neck, _I know,_ his awkward posture projects.

“Want any tea?” A slight nod in response from Robin, bundled with a disconcerting glare. Robin’s not one for gentle pleasantries.

“Feeling any better?”

“No, not really.” The truth hurts, but it’s easier than pretending everything’s ok. 

“Well, have you been doing anything besides wallowing?”

“Work, trying to keep the house clean. Energy’s low, so…” he responds with a shrug, a downturned gaze that studiously avoids eye contact. He quickly gazes around the room, seeing the dirty plates stacked high in the sink, shoes and clothes piled in the corner of the living room. It’s a lie, but thankfully Robin lets it slide.

“Sanji you’re not getting better.” She disapproves, though it’s nothing new. It’s not like Sanji can help it, not like he can think himself happier. If only he could limit his wallowing in self-pity to just 15 minutes a day.

“It’s really nothing new Robin. I’ve… done this before.” He avoids eye contact with her – though keeping her at arms length is harder than he’d imagined. If anyone could understand what goes though his mind on a regular basis, it would be Robin. “I… I don’t think I’ve been really happy in a long time, it just looks bad right now. I’ll be ok.” _Probably._

“There’s things that’ll make it easier Sanji. You need to talk to somebody. Pills, therapy, a vacation, anything. You need help and I’ll be damned if I’m just going to let you sit here and rot in your misery,” Robin says. He loves her so much, but there are things that he can do, and there are things that he doesn’t need to solve a silly little problem like depression.

“It’s fine, really. Everyone gets upset like this. There’s always a point in everyone’s life where things just get a little extra hard to handle.”

“Sanji that’s not true and you know it.”

She’s right, of course. He knows it. It’s just hard to admit that he needs help.

“I know,” he places his tea on the table, using the maneuver to gather his thoughts, “it’s just hard to be dependent on something like that. I’m not… I don’t want to seem weak.”

Robin slams her hand hard down on the table, the resulting smack and clatter of dishes echoing around the room. Sanji’s ears begin to ring from the sudden outburst.

“The only weak thing is realizing you have a problem and doing nothing to fix it.”

 

* * *

 Once, when it was probably their fourth time ‘trying again,’ (although with each subsequent fallout it became harder and harder to tell if they’d ever actually broken up, or if they were just two broken pieces interlocked), Zoro and Sanji took a vacation.

They both were overworked, underappreciated, and stressed out from everything. So the first weekend free they booked a stay at a rented beach condo and spent three days in lovely, quiet seclusion.

Sanji had never been more fond of Zoro. It was truly bliss – to be together, outside the views of everyone else, away from the pressures of the real world, in a spot where Sanji could pretend he wasn’t constantly wrestling with his self-doubt and dark mental clouds.

It was during a walk on the beach that Zoro told Sanji about his family. He’s not sure how he never knew about it in the first place, or how they’d never talked about it before – but then again Zoro wasn’t usually the sharing or tactile type, so with hand in hand and their feet in the water Sanji wasn’t about to stop it.

“I miss her a lot. You remind me of her actually… stubborn as fucking mules.”

“Do you think she’d be happy for you?”

Zoro looked at him, confusion clear in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” and Sanji hesitated, because he wasn’t good with families, couldn’t map out exactly how they were supposed to relate. “If she were still alive, do you think… she’d get along with your friends? Or be happy with your job? Who you grew up to be?”

Zoro hung his head down, and Sanji worried again if he’s said something he shouldn’t have. Crossed some kind of invisible line that would tear Zoro even further away.

“I think… Yeah I think she’d be proud, you know?”

Sanji doesn’t understand, couldn’t possibly empathize. He’s broken, cast out; his family a blight on his memory. He doesn’t talk about them and Zoro knows that.

They walk back to their room in comfortable silence.

Later they ordered room service, and Sanji got a kick of how _giggly_ champagne made the both of them. Wrapped up in the soft, velvety blankets in their king sized bed, Sanji was able to realize just how much he loved Zoro without the thought being followed by how Zoro deserved so much better.

“You know I love you, right? You believe me when I tell you that?” Words whispered in the dead of night, where the only light was what little had spilled under the door.

“I do, Zoro. I do.” A reply murmured, then echoed through tangled limbs.

The question was never about love. It was always wondering if that was enough.

 

* * *

Chopper’s on a roll.

Sanji always knew the kid was serious about medicine. It’s kind of hard not to be proud when one of your best friends becomes an actual licensed, practicing doctor. It gets even better when the doctor is as young and cute as Chopper is. Although Sanji has been admonished more times than he can count for bad habits, and given treatment on the side for things he shouldn’t even have been doing, he’s never been on the receiving end of such a serious lecture from the kid.

Chopper showed up one day after Sanji’s final psychiatrist appointment, followed closely behind by Robin. Sanji had shot Robin a look of pure desperation and disdain when the two had barged into his house together, with Chopper prattling at the top of his lungs about medicine, the brain, and various biomedical terms that went over Sanji’s head.

“Ok, listen Sanji. So when the brain is depressed it’s because of an unbalance in neurotransmitters, which is how neurons in the brain talk to each other. What happens is the neurotransmitters, in this case serotonin… Sanji are you paying attention to me?”

Chopper knows his stuff, but it takes a long time for the message to really sink in. 

Sanji learns far more about the biology and neuro-anatomy of the brain than he ever wanted to. It begins when he learns what dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine are – rhymes of chemistry alien to him. Then he learns that not only are the words and mechanisms foreign to him, but to the microcosm of his own brain as well. Chopper goes so far as to pull out diagrams and figures of neurotransmitter reuptake mechanisms and synaptic firing. While Sanji makes lunch he’s regaled with tales of hormone and enzyme deficiency and of various therapies used in the past.

It’s far too much information given in far too short of a time span.

“Wait, Chopper...” Sanji questions once the kid has calmed down and is actually breathing in between sentences. “You’re telling me, that I feel this way because my brain isn’t… what? Doing the right things with the chemicals it makes?”

“Yes!”

“And this is a thing that people actually study?” 

There's a long pause. “No, Sanji. I made up every fact I’ve told you over the past two hours.” Chopper rolls his eyes and sighs deeply. “In fact, medical school isn’t a real thing. M.D stands for ‘Mad and Disillusioned.’ Sorry.” Chopper fixes Sanji with such a blank stare that Sanji almost feels bad for voicing his disbelief. But hey, it’s not every day you learn that your brain isn’t doing its job properly.

“Hey, no need to be such a smart ass about it.” 

What hits Sanji that night, when he’s lying in bed with eyes wide open, is that he’s not broken. Not really.

Or at least, he’ll keep saying it until it’s true.

He learns that it takes three weeks for the more… unfortunate side effects to potentially pass, at which his dose may or may not be upped until the 2-month time point when _hopefully_ his symptoms will start to be alleviated. He spends 3 weeks being carefully monitored by a (suspiciously well scheduled) rotation of Chopper, Robin, Nami, and Usopp whom have all taken the increased risk of suicidal attempts wholly in stride. Sanji, certainly not for the first time in his life, doesn’t know how to feel about it. Zoro is conspicuously absent. Luffy somehow manages to show up at exactly the point in time when he's needed, and leaves when Sanji starts to get exhausted again. In a way, he's grateful to Luffy the most - he always sleeps better on the days Luffy visits.

He takes 2 pills in the morning: one selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, one supplement for vitamin D, and goes to bi-weekly appointments with a new therapist. Sanji finds he likes this new doctor much better than the old. He’s even managed to get used to not smoking during sessions and he’s calling it a victory.

It’s not that he’s happy immediately. It’s not that his problems magically go away. It’s not that he’s suddenly gifted with an epiphany that he’s more than his depression, trust issues, and recklessness. Every other week his doctor continues to remind him that nothing about this is going to happen easily.

As promised, it starts with little things. It starts with being able to get out of bed after only hitting the snooze button on his phone twice. Breakfasts now consist of toast and a fried egg rather than cigarettes, which makes the rest of his day surprisingly easier than he would have expected. Laundry gets done slowly. The dishes in the sink stop piling up, and the house starts smelling ever so slightly fresher. Sanji starts dressing nicely again.

It’s not easier all the time. He has more energy to do the things he has to, but not enough to get him beyond the necessities. It’s like an invisible weight with claws sunk deep down into his bones. Every step takes twice the amount of energy it should. Every emotion is twice as exhausting. There are hours, sometimes days where he doesn’t feel anything. _It’s easier that way_ , he supposes. 

* * *

 

It’s one of those rare days where he’s dressed up and polished, coming home from a long shift with feet and back aching when he spies a suspicious shape huddled on his doorstep. He hadn’t seem him earlier, but he was walking in that completely unaware state, staring into empty space with his body moving on autopilot. Sanji frowns at the man, carefully taking in the way green hair peeks out from underneath the hood to his sweatshirt and how his shoulders are hunches forward. It’s hard for a 200-pound man to look small, but he seems to be trying his best.

“Hey,” Sanji says awkwardly as he stands in front of Zoro. “Been waiting long?”

“Nah, I just uh, went for a run? And wound up in the neighborhood.”

“Uh-huh…” Sanji sidesteps around Zoro and carefully pulls his keys out of his pocket. He swallows the comment he’d thought of, of how Zoro’s runs always lead him to strange places, and how _you’re lucky you wound up somewhere you recognize._ Instead he quickly unlocks the door and steps in. He left the door open expecting Zoro to follow behind him, and is surprised when he doesn’t hear footsteps in his house. “You gonna come in?”

“Is that ok?”

“Don’t overthink it Mosshead.”

Sanji carefully balances while disentangling from his clothes. Shoes stay in the entryway; he’ll wear them again tomorrow, no sense in putting them away. His keys, wallet, and pocket box of cigarettes are all dumped on the dining room table. He sighs heavily as he switches the kitchen light on, moving to a cabinet to the left of the sink for a glass.

He grabs one glass, hesitates, and then grabs a second. “Hey, you want-“

“Can I use your shower? I feel really gross after my run.” Zoro’s voice echoes loudly in the silent room. The interruption startles him and shatters Sanji’s train of thought. He’s unused to loud noises and voices in his house as much as he’s unused to _Zoro’s_ voice in his house.

He tries to recollect his thoughts, mentally tries to rebuild some semblance of self-control, and frowns at Zoro; first in confusion, then in exasperation. He waves a hand in Zoro’s general direction. “Yeah, yeah. You know where all the stuff is.”

The other man doesn’t respond, but Sanji hears the bathroom door close, slightly louder than necessary and it sets his teeth on edge and his shoulders hunch up in an uncontrolled manner. Then the sound of the bathroom faucet turning on, and the slide of metal against metal as the shower curtain closes.

Setting the kettle to boil, Sanji mindlessly stares around the kitchen trying very hard to simultaneously think of absolutely nothing to calm himself, and to deconstruct every single possible reason Zoro could have for showing up at his house.

His breathing starts to quicken, but he’s torn away from his inner thoughts as the water begins to boil. He flips the switch on the kettle, and then rummages in the cabinet for a large mug. He throws the tea sachet into the cup and slowly pours the slightly below boiling water over the leaves. Wrapping the string around the mug’s handle with one hand Sanji reaches for the honey he left next to the kettle. He pours in a healthy spoonful and stirs his tea, blowing gently to cool it.

He moves to the sofa and settles down into the cushions with one leg curled up so his foot is pressed flat against the side of his thigh. Holding the mug in two hands his mind cycles over the fact that Zoro is in his house and he doesn’t know how he feels.

Is Zoro there to talk about them together? Is he there for sex? Sanji doesn’t try to kid himself into believing Zoro is there because Sanji’s been removed from their group for so long. Is he drunk? That would explain the strange atmosphere and why Zoro had almost immediately jumped into the shower, but it still didn’t explain why Zoro was _there._

There’s the unmistakable sound of the shower diverter being hit from the bathroom, and Sanji stomach begins to tighten nervously. Zoro is about to come out into the living room and then they’re going to have to _deal with each other._

His mouth is dry and he takes a large gulp of tea, not realizing that the liquid isn’t quite cooled enough. He scalds his tongue, and coughs, angry with himself for being so careless.

“You okay?” Zoro appears, thankfully dressed in the clothes he was wearing earlier. He frowns as he absentmindedly dries his hair with one of Sanji’s blue towels.

“Uh, yeah. The tea was hotter than I thought it’d be.”

“You never drink tea at night.” Zoro’s voice is suspicious. He’s asking about the tea, but he’s also probably thinking something along the lines of _how else have you changed,_ and _do I even know you anymore?_

“It’s chamomile – helps me sleep.”

“Are you not sleeping well?” Their back and forth bickering is comforting at first, and then a hard reminder that he is not ok. That he can’t deal with starting over again.

Sanji sighs, and shifts a little in his spot on the couch. “Frankly, I’m not doing a lot of things very well at the moment.” The words come out sounding angrier than he’d meant.

“Shit – I …” Zoro splutters, then stutters, and his cheeks turn a bright dusky rose color when he drops the towel. Sanji hates that blush. He hates how easy it is to watch the blush creep from the sharp edges of Zoro’s cheekbones to the tips of his ears. He especially hates how, when he’s really lucky, it’s possible to trace the blush down Zoro’s chest, though he’s trying very hard not to focus on that right now.

“Why are you here?” Sanji finally snaps.

It takes Zoro a few minutes to collect himself and answer. “I haven’t seen you in a while and-“

“Don’t,” Sanji mumbles.

“ ‘Don’t’ what?” Zoro turns to face Sanji head on, his hands on his hips and leaning slightly forward the way he does when he’s irritated. Or picking a fight, which usually occurs when he’s irritated, go figure.

“Don’t fucking apologize.”

“I’m not here to apologize.”

“Yes, you are because that’s what we do, Zoro. One of us swings a fist and the other apologizes for something. You…” Sanji pauses, not sure what exactly he wants to throw at Zoro. _You’re part of why I’m insane? You can’t say anything that’ll make it better? You love me far more than I could ever love you?_

“What?” Zoro's response both dares Sanji to continue and clearly expresses his disdain for the entire conversation. Shit.

Sanji stands up, and carefully places his mug down on the coffee table in front of him. His hands shake as the mug makes contact with the wooden surface, but it’s not obvious enough for Zoro to notice.

Sanji repeats his earlier question, “Why are you here?”

Zoro’s shoulders rise and fall dramatically, and the sound of his soft sigh fills the room. “I miss you.”

“Yeah, I miss you too.” It hurts to admit it, but it hurts a lot more to lie.

“Can we…”

“No.” Sanji interrupts, he doesn’t let Zoro continue the sentence, because he’s not sure if he wants to even entertain the thought of something happening in the future.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His voice is low, and soft enough that when Zoro doesn’t immediately reply Sanji worries that he didn’t hear him.

“So you’re what, kicking me out of your life?” Zoro asks defensively.

“No, of course not. I just… I can’t…” He loses the sentence, and has to squeeze his eyes to bring his focus back. He rubs his face forlornly, trying to figure out exactly what he should say. Before he can stop himself the words tumble out from him uncontrollably. “I can’t focus on anything right now and I barely have the fucking energy to drag my sorry ass back and forth to the things that actually have to fucking get done. I don’t have the energy to do anything else. I don’t… I don’t have anything else to give.”

It takes a while for Zoro to respond, and in his silence he stares at Sanji. His face contorts slightly in obvious signs of confusion, then resignation. “Sanji, you don’t have to give me anything.”

He says the words like they don’t matter. Of course it fucking matters.

Sanji squeezes his eyes shut again, but this time it’s to control the tears unwillingly forming. His throat begins to itch and he’s forced to stifle a sniffle before the situation gets worse for him than it already is.

Zoro beats him to the next line. “It’s ok. I can wait for you, until this passes, until you get whatever you need. I...” he pauses, the sort of pause where he’s trying not to say something off hand, but full of meaning instead. “It’s not the same without you.”

“Shut up!” Sanji cries out, a tear dropping down his face, a choked down sob nearly cutting off his words. Zoro stands shocked opposite of him, one hand rubbing the opposite shoulder in clear discomfort.

“You don’t get to say that! You… You have no idea what I’m going through. I’m not going to be happy just like that! You can’t just waltz into my house and say that it’s ok, like you even under…” He stops, to take a deep breath, and also because words and emotions are pooling and fusing in confusing ways in his brain.

He walks closer to Zoro, until he’s nearly staring him straight in the eyes. “Do you understand? Do you really understand that I am a broken shell of a human being and that I will never be enough for you? This isn’t something you get to love me through. This isn’t something that saying you love me will fix.” The words hurt coming out, as if something from deep inside Sanji has been pulled out from the roots. They sting his tongue as surely as he knows the bite at Zoro. He means what he said, but he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

The room is silent for a few moments, then broken by a stifled cry from Sanji.

“This isn’t something that can be fixed.”

Sanji is tired. He is so tired of things not working out for him. He is so tired of every aspect of his life being shrouded by a lack of energy, by a lack of emotion, by a deep dark hatred for every thing that makes him who he is.

“I can’t be fixed.”

He’s not sure who reached out first, him or Zoro, but he finds himself wrapped up in Zoro’s arms. They’re sitting on the couch; Sanji’s eyes are puffy and swollen, Zoro’s sleeve stained with tears.

His mind is still cycling. This whole situation isn’t an easy fix. He’s not worth saving. He’s not worth loving.

He picks Zoro’s voice from outside his tumultuous train of thought. “I love you. Why won’t you let me?” But maybe he imagines that.

Warm in Zoro’s arms and exhausted from everything, he lets go and fades to sleep.

 

 

He wakes up with eyes swollen and nearly crusted shut. His mouth is dry, though his cheek is wet, and he absent-mindedly wipes the drool off his face with the back of his hand as he adjusts to the reality of being awake.

He’s cold, and it takes him a second to realize it’s because he’s on the couch, and he’s alone.

He wonders, briefly, if he imagined last night. If the Zoro in his house that he clung to last night was just a figment of his desperate and lonely imagination; something that he dreamt up thinking it might make him feel better in the moment.

He spies a piece of paper on the coffee table near him, and sleepily deciphers the uneven lettering that slants oddly to the left.

_I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me in the morning. Please call me when you can. I love you._

It hits him then, that maybe his friends are willing to wait. That maybe _Zoro_ is willing to wait.

 

 

 

The first few days pass as usual: Sanji, moving from work to bed in an unending cycle, broken up by one scheduled visit to his therapist and one unscheduled call from Nami. She’s doing good – and wants Sanji to visit soon.

A week goes by, and Sanji doesn’t feel any better, but then again he doesn’t feel any worse. 

The second week, Sanji calls Zoro.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of thanks again to everyone for reading this! It's an interesting piece to work on, that's for sure. I wasn't quite certain where I wanted to end this chapter, but I've been siting on it for a while now and it just felt done. Everything beyond this point belongs in the next chapter, the next phase as it is... hopefully that comes across well to y'all. 
> 
> Again, no word on when the next part will be out. Please leave any comments, concerns, questions, or things you'd like to see!

**Author's Note:**

> This work is in part inspired by Dangit's Life is Fine series (which I cannot recommend enough), though that may not be entirely obvious. 
> 
> There should be three parts to this, no word on when it'll be up. 
> 
> I welcome any and all comments, reviews, critiques, thoughts, and suggestions! I'm totally up for putting in any ideas in the upcoming chapters as well. As always, thanks for reading.


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